


Dangerous Notions

by Tainted_Grace



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, Bottom Napoleon, Butt Sex, Dirty Talk, M/M, Smut, Top Illya, emotionally constipated, gaby knows, illya doesnt, napoleon doesnt, they both want the d tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-04-08
Packaged: 2018-06-01 02:36:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6497506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tainted_Grace/pseuds/Tainted_Grace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Later they will have to worry about the consequences of what happened. They will have to rethink all that they ever believed about one another’s boundaries. They will have to decide what this thing between them is and what they are willing to let it become. But right now, they are fine just the way they are, with Napoleon curled into Illya’s chest and Illya’s head buried in his hair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dangerous Notions

**Author's Note:**

> So I saw the movie a billion times and told myself I wouldn't do this. But here I am writing a fic for TMFU even though I said I wouldn't.
> 
> I COULDN'T HELP MYSELF!! 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you like my attempt at angsty as hell porn with a somewhat eh plot that I wrote at like three in the morning.

“Hello there, my name is Jack Debonair.” Napoleon introduces himself to the beautiful young blonde, completely disregarding the six and a half foot tall Russian sitting at his back, both men pretending as if they don’t know one another. “May I buy you a drink?”

“No, thank you, Mr. Solo.” The woman responds, causing the American to look at the knowing glint in her eye with curiosity and concern while Illya tries not to do a spit take into his vodka.

“You understand why I use a name other than my own when in company such as this, correct?” He responds smoothly, masking his surprise behind a mask of charming indifference. Illya downs his drink and orders another vodka behind him and Napoleon becomes hyper aware of just how thick his accent is tonight. His face shows no reaction, but the twisting in his stomach is proof enough of the effect the Russian agent has on him.

“Of course. It is no surprise that your name draws so much chatter. You _are_ one of the best criminals in Europe, after all. You even have your own task force dedicated to bringing you to justice for your crimes, or at least you did. Luckily for me, their funding was cut and they were disbanded.” She responds over her martini with a smoldering look that could put Gaby to shame. “Is there some place we could talk more privately? I have a proposition for you.”

“I am staying in the hotel, in fact.” Napoleon nods and Illya has to resist the eye roll he so desperately wants to send the American’s way. The man is tasked with wooing the daughter of a dirty billionaire that has been very naughty as of late. His mission is not to bed the barely legal girl, though. Leave it to Napoleon Solo to find pleasure in everything he does.

“That sounds perfect, Mr. Solo.” She nods, returning her glass to the bar and holding her hand out for Napoleon to take.

“Right this way, my lady.” He charms and Illya can see how far gone the girl is in his partner’s eyes. His hand begins to twitch at the sight of Napoleon disappearing with yet another woman in the middle of the case but he tries to ignore it and decides to go for a walk to clear his mind. Hopefully the cool night air of the Paris night will calm him down and get him to stop thinking about that infuriating CIA operative that he just can’t bring himself to despise.

+++

The next morning Napoleon meets him in the dining room, like he is supposed to, but there is an obvious bump in his step that indicates just how well his night went. The girl has long since found her way out to the car that will take her back to her father. She will no doubt become the way in that Napoleon and Illya need to break this mission, but until then, they have nothing to do but wait.

So they play chess.

Illya refused to let Napoleon play for the longest time, but after he finally broke down and allowed the man to play the game he found that he was actually quite good. They play four games of chess in a row without moving, each game ending in a stalemate that frustrates them both to no end. After they exhaust their brilliant minds in chess, they exhaust their livers in vodka, and not the cheap imitation vodka the hotel had pre-stocked in the mini bar. Illya pulls out a bottle of good Russian vodka from home that was hiding in the bottom of his suitcase. They don’t drink to get drunk, just to get the edge off. Solo drinks more than Illya, but the Russian knows that the slight buzz will do nothing to hinder his faculties in the slightest.

“You are childish, Cowboy.”

“And you are a saint, Peril.” Solo counters back with an innocent grin that gets under Illya’s skin like nothing else.

The inevitable call comes less than twelve hours after Napoleon’s little rendezvous with the heiress. She wants to introduce Napoleon to her father. He has a collection that can’t be quite finished and she thinks he can help. He assures her that of course he can, given his unique skill set, and she invites him to lunch with her father and herself the very next day at their mansion in the French countryside just outside the city.

Napoleon performs perfectly, as if anyone expects any different from the man, but something still goes terribly wrong. The father must have some amazing connections to know that Napoleon is on a rather tight leash. Like a good father, he plays along with Napoleon’s grandeur persona for his daughter’s sake, but, the minute the girl leaves for a spa appointment, a team of men are dragging Solo away and Illya is sighing in exasperation from his spot in the van a half mile down the road.

+++

Illya feels déjà vu creep into his senses as he looks through the window in the door and holds up a finger to his lips, gesturing for Napoleon to remain silent. The sense ends there. Unlike the electric chair from the Vinciguerra affair, this time Napoleon is bleeding. He has obviously been well and thoroughly tortured for anything and everything his captors could get. It doesn’t take Illya more than two minutes to render Napoleon’s torturers unconscious and then another thirty seconds to untie the man and carefully help him from the room. Once again, Illya finds himself grateful for Napoleon’s stubbornness and inability to remain serious for any extended length of time. He is also grateful that the people who tortured him seem rather incompetent and probably only got snide remarks and bold-faced lies from his partner.

“No worries, Peril. The intel I gave them will lead them nowhere. I lied the entire time.” Napoleon groans in discomfort as Illya’s giant paw rubs across a rather nasty row of cuts across his ribs.

He instantly moves his hand back to the man’s bicep and shoulder and they find their way out of the complex without much confrontation; certainly nothing Illya can’t handle with his free hand in a lightning quick flash of movement. “You are reckless, Cowboy. How many times do I have to save you?”

“I would’ve found a way out.” Napoleon huffs indignantly, his jaw lifting just a bit.

“Sure you would’ve.”

+++

Business goes on as usual for another eight months before Illya is the one being taken prisoner. Thanks to a hefty amount of horse tranquilizer and a very sharp dart full of the stuff being shot into the back of his shoulder, the Red Peril is rendered helpless and finds himself tied to a wall with his arms and legs spread eagle and his clothes pretty much ripped to shreds from the constant torture. A single glance down tells him that they didn’t have the brains to remove his shoes, which makes a smirk cross his bloody mouth. He knows that Napoleon left a tracker in his shoe – just as he leaves on in Napoleon’s – but after two more days without the American’s appearance, Illya begins to worry.

The worry isn’t enough to loosen his lip in the slightest, quite the opposite actually, but it is enough to make him more moody and temperamental than usual. When he finally sees Napoleon, it’s nearly a week after he was taken and the man is fighting his way through the entire mountain full of goons on his way to save the Russian giant. Illya sighs, grateful that Napoleon Solo isn’t a _complete_ imbecile.

He makes quick work of the cuffs on Illya’s wrists and ankles, the simple lock a piece of cake for him, and hands him a jacket that he stole from the largest guard he knocked out. The thing is still too tight in the shoulders and too short in the sleeves to fit the Russian’s giant 6’5” frame, but it will do at least. “Did you miss me, Peril?” Napoleon winks, leading him out the way he came.

As they walk further from the cell and closer to freedom, Illya is struck by just how many guards Napoleon had to take down in his search for his partner. Looking at Napoleon’s wrinkle-free suit one would never guess he took down all of the men sprawled unconscious around the place, which makes a sense of pride sear through Illya’s tired veins.

“Good to see you, Mr. Kuryakin.” Waverly yells over the blades of the helicopter as he helps the pair inside.

“Da, good to be here.” He responds in kind, though he wants nothing more than at least 12 hours of sleep and a very tall glass of his finest, strongest vodka.

+++

Upon their return to the safe house Napoleon decides to make dinner for the two of them while Illya takes a shower and changes into something without holes and blood caked into the very fibers. No words have to be spoken between them over the rather amazingly prepared borscht for them to understand what they are trying to convey.

“Absolutely hated working with you, Peril.” Napoleon smirks as he stands and heads towards his room, the words coming naturally after having been repeated so many times.

“You’re a terrible spy, Cowboy.” Illya nods, responding the way he always does and finishing his wine before turning to his own room.

+++

The following day Illya sleeps until three in the afternoon and wakes to the sound of Napoleon singing to himself as he cooks a late lunch. “I thought you’d never wake up.” He says without turning around.

“When are we leaving?” Illya asks, not bothering to respond to the jab.

“Waverly had some last minute business to attend to in that cave I so valiantly rescued you from. We have the day to lay low and tomorrow we leave for London.” Napoleon lays out, sliding a delicious looking omelet onto the plate at Illya’s place. “Bon appetite, monsieur.”

“Thank you, Solo.” Illya sighs out in relief as he digs in, the appreciation and honesty in his voice throwing the other agent off momentarily until he just shrugs with that infuriating little grin of his.

“Any time. That’s what partners are for.”

With that he returns to his room to pack up his suits and other things that he won’t need in the next 18 or so hours. He knows it’s just an excuse to be away from Illya, but he just can’t deal with the man right now. Finding him like he did, with his shirt ripped to shreds and hanging from his shoulders, his pants hanging low on his hips and showing off his perfectly prominent hip bones, is the last thing that Napoleon needed. His self-control around the attractive male is already practically nonexistent, he doesn’t need another reason to let go and just jump the man.

+++

Back in London things are easier. At least, that’s what they tell themselves. Each of them know they need to work on the areas they lack so that a repeat of their individual kidnappings doesn’t happen again. Illya spends most of the free days practicing his lock picking. He is tired of Napoleon constantly upstaging him when they need to pick a lock, well, he’s tired of the bragging that comes along with the deadly efficiency of it, anyway. On the flip side, Napoleon spends his free time in the HQ gym, his knuckles red and bruised from over use. Many people have come to the conclusion that Napoleon maintains his figure through a very vigorous and energetic regimen of sexual activities and he has yet to bother correcting the assumption. In reality, he takes all of his frustration out on a punching bag with only the _occasional_ rendezvous on the side to take off the edge.

Illya Kuryakin will be the death of him, in every sense of the term, and he is so fed up with it that he spends as much time as he can stand destroying a punching bag. His confused emotions that stem from the mixed signals Illya is constantly sending just transfer to rage because if there is one thing Napoleon hates, it’s a lack of control. All of the pent up emotions turn to rage and he breaks the heavy bag within a matter of four days, sending sand spilling out all over the gym floor.

One time Illya comes into the gym to spar with Gaby and they are shocked into silence at the sight of Napoleon systematically taking apart the bag. They are stood in awe at the grace of the man. Even in this, one of his roughest and grimmest talents, the man still exudes a regal air of relaxation and control and finesse. Illya can feel the want he has been repressing grow to nearly breaking point and he has to turn and climb into the ring to stop himself from requesting that Napoleon use those capable hands on him.

Gaby knows that Solo is distracting her teacher within a matter of minutes and she gets absolutely fed up with the sexual tension radiating from the two of them like cheap cologne. “Hey, Solo, can you help Illya show me how to do this move? He isn’t making much sense.”

“I make perfect sense.” Illya growls, slightly offended that she thinks he needs the American’s help to get his point across.

“What do you need?” Napoleon asks, resting his wrapped hands on the ropes and staring up at the pair in the ring. He’s panting and sounds out of breath, but that just makes Illya want him to walk away even more.

“He’s trying to show me how to get out of certain situations but I am not really understanding. Could you come help him demonstrate?” She begs, making sure to bat her eyelashes at the man below her.

“Of course.” He nods, pulling himself up into the ring with little effort at all. “Where do you want me, Peril?”

Illya knows he doesn’t mean it in the way that Illya would like, but the phrasing instantly makes him tense so he decides that this is the only way he can afford to have a reason for the other man’s hands on him. “I was showing her how to escape a hold. Do you want to trap or be trapped?”

“I don’t discriminate. Whichever would be a better position for you.” He shrugs, rubbing his palms together and stepping towards his partner.

He has to be doing it on purpose, Illya thinks to himself. There is no way those double-edged words are just _slipping_ _out_ accidentally. Regardless, Illya just motions for Napoleon to turn around. The man does so without question, tensing when Illya attacks.

His forearm comes across his windpipe from behind as the long length of him presses into Napoleon’s back, effectively trapping him with a limited amount of oxygen. “Get out of it.” He orders and Napoleon instantly pushes up on the forearm across his windpipe, twisting just so that he gets out of the chokehold and uses Illya’s momentum against him. The Russian lands on his knees with his arm twisted tightly behind his back before he can process the change.

“Good.” Illya nods and Solo instantly lets go and helps him to stand once more.

“Okay, I think I’ve got that one. What’s next?” Gaby asks, willing to push the two of them until one of them finally snaps.

Illya reaches for Napoleon’s throat with both hands, feeling power course through him at the sight of his large hands dwarfing the corded neck between his palms. “Get out of it.” He orders once more and a forearm is brought down against the juncture of his elbows, weakening his grip and pulling him in tighter to Napoleon. A simple tug of his forearms has his grip removed from his partner’s neck and then he finds himself in a chokehold much like the one he put Napoleon in before. He could easily free himself but he decides to remain in the slightly bent position for a second, if only to have further excuse for Napoleon to be touching him as much as he is.

“Okay, I get those. So what if you get in a fight with the other person? Could you two maybe show me how a fight would go between people of your skillsets?” She presses from her place beside the rope, making sure that her face is a mask of pure innocence and concentration and curiosity.

“You want us to fight?” Napoleon asks, an eyebrow raised at the girl.

“I will win. I already did once.” Illya scoffs and Napoleon turns to him with skepticism clear on his face.

“Oh really? Prove it, tough guy.” He growls, the entire fight becoming a matter of pride with that one snide comment.

“Fine. Gaby, you should stand outside the ring.” He suggests and she hops to the floor to watch from there, a smug grin gracing her face when she turns her back to them to get down from the elevated platform.

The two men circle one another with their hands raised in defense. The last time they fought like this they were in a bathroom and they were enemies. Now there isn’t as much anger in their eyes and both are slow to make the first move. They both know it will be Illya to make the initial swing; Napoleon would never place himself in a position that vulnerable when he knows just how strong the Red Peril is. Physically, Illya has the upper hand in almost every way, which gives him a distinct advantage over Napoleon’s agility and speed.

They are both correct when Illya lashes out with an open hand, wrapping his bear paw around the back of Napoleon’s neck and drawing his face down towards his knee. Solo crosses his forearms to stop the blow and goes to punch Illya in the gut in the same swift movement. The move lands, but doesn’t succeed in doing much damage as Illya backs up just enough to lessen the impact of the blow. Napoleon spins, swinging his arm at Illya’s face crudely. Illya blocks the move like the American knew he would and Napoleon uses the opportunity to grip the man’s right wrist in his right hand before pulling and using their combined momentum to spin Illya around and trap his arm high up behind his back.

Any other agent would tap out or risk a dislocated, or even broken, shoulder, but Illya just uses brute force to stretch his arm down enough to break free, tossing Napoleon over his shoulder so the agent lands on his back at the giant’s feet. Before he can go to attack again, though, Napoleon sweeps his foot across the mat, knocking his opponent down and rolling on top of him so he is straddling the Russian with his hands around his throat while his knees trap Illya’s hands at his sides. Illya tries to buck his partner off once but then stops when he feels Napoleon’s ass grind into his crotch and steal the breath from his lungs.

“Fine. You win, this time. I will not say you are better agent though, Cowboy.” Illya grumbles and Gaby chuckles from the sidelines, loving seeing her plan unfold before her very eyes.

Napoleon removes his hands from Illya’s throat in favor of resting them upon the man’s broad chest while they both catch their breath. “You don’t need to say it to make it true, Peril.” Napoleon winks and Illya grunts with the force it takes to roll them so he is trapping the conceited capitalist to the mat.

“And you don’t need to say it for anyone to know I let you win.” Illya sounds breathless when he speaks and he quickly stands, ducking under the rope and hopping out of the ring before Napoleon even stands himself.

“What just happened?” Gaby shrieks, her beautiful plan falling to shreds as the emotionally constipated Russian walks away.

“It seems we came to our ever familiar impasse, my dear.” Napoleon clears his throat before he speaks but she can still hear the effect Illya has on him.

“Why did he say he let you win?” Gaby asks, wanting to make Napoleon chase after his partner.

“That hold I used on him? If he had bucked just right he could’ve tossed me off and over his head in an instant. He tried once, but then gave up. Essentially, he gave me the win.” Napoleon’s feathers are clearly ruffled by the incident and he nods to her briefly before leaving the room in search of a certain dirty blond Russian with anger issues and amazing taste in vodka.

+++

“Come in.” Illya says through the door when Napoleon knocks some time later, the American having changed out of his gym clothes, taken a shower, and donned a full three-piece suit despite the hot London summer.

Napoleon walks into the room with the assumption that he will find Illya sitting at the coffee table playing himself in a game of chess, so he is utterly unprepared for the sight of the man doing pull-ups off his bedroom doorframe shirtless and in sweatpants that hang dangerously lowly on his hips. Any words that Napoleon could’ve thought to say are lost in the aftermath of gazing upon muscles that before were only hinted at beneath tight sweaters and water drenched jackets. “I…” He manages to get out but his ability to speak ends there.

“Spit it out, Cowboy.” Illya orders, dropping from the bar spanning the doorway and walking into the living space to get a drink of water.

“Wh-Why did you let me win?”

“Is no fun to beat you all of the time. Have to keep you coming back for more so I have more chances to beat you.” He states and it makes the occurrence sound so simple, despite the twitch that Napoleon was almost positive he felt beneath him while he was pinning the man.

“What makes you think I wouldn’t come back if you won?”

“You are silly capitalist, Cowboy. Your pride could not handle it.” _Okay, ouch_ , Napoleon thinks, not bothering to dignify the jab with a response since he knows that Illya is partially right.

“One of these days I want a real fight. No stakes, no holding back, just you and me for the sake of the game.” Napoleon doesn’t realize he has been walking and talking until he is literally half a foot from Illya’s sweat slick face.

“One of these days you may get one. Do not forget who we are.” The former KGB operative’s tone leaves no room for kidding around or friendly jibes; his warning is not one to be taken lightly.

“I couldn’t even if I wanted to. What, with the way those close minded Russians trained you like a machine.”

“What does that mean, Cowboy? I was trained as KGB, not machine.”

“Are they not the same, in a sense? You are trained to set aside all emotional connection and give up all pleasure, both physical and mental. They trained you that their way is the right way and all else is subject to elimination.” Napoleon knows that Illya may attack him at any moment but the knowledge only loosens his lips further. “When was the last time you had sex, Peril? And I don’t mean for a mission.”

“I am not you, Cowboy. I do not need women to keep me company at all times.” Illya says defensively, the American’s words tightening his stomach as he imagines Napoleon keeping him company instead of some random woman.

“So you need a man.” Napoleon states boldly, shocking Illya to no end at the declaration.

“To lay with a man is illegal. It comes with a sentence served out in Siberia. How dare you accuse-”

“I don’t accuse, my fine Russian friend. I simply asked a question. I see now that my assumption was unwelcome. And if that is how you feel, you might do me the honor of killing me now because I do so hate the cold.” Napoleon says smoothly, despite the nerves rushing through his veins as he outs himself to the one person that has gotten close enough to totally and utterly destroy him.

“You are…?” Illya looks down at the man from his impressive height, not backing away despite what he thinks he heard.

“I believe the word you are looking for is ‘homosexual’, in which case the answer is: partially. I enjoy the company of both men and women equally, though, if I may, no one has ever quite drawn my eye as much as someone I’ve met rather recently.” He is still too unsure of his partner’s reaction to straight up tell him how he feels but with every passing second he grows a little bit bolder.

“Who has captured playboy’s gaze, may I ask?” Illya questions, hand twitching with phantom jealousy over whomever has caught _his_ Cowboy’s attention.

“You may know him.” Napoleon begins and the word is not lost on the Russian, causing him to stand up straighter in his own skin, hairs on the back of his neck bristling as his jealousy grows stronger. “He’s tall, handsome, a hellion to work with, and stubborn as can be. I think that under that tough exterior, though, he is nothing more than someone in need of love and attention.”

“And you think you are man to give it to him?” Illya asks, willing to play the other man’s game, though he wants nothing more than to just push him against the nearest wall and kiss him until the sun turns blue. “What if you are wrong about him?”

Napoleon sees the moment Illya puts the pieces together but indulges him for a moment more, having no idea that he is the one being indulged. “I doubt that. I know him too well to misread a sign as clear as the one I am getting. My only question is: are you going to continue to stand there and pretend you don’t know it’s you or are you going to just kiss me already?”

Napoleon’s back hits the wall with alarming speed and he briefly wonders if the drywall behind him suffered any cracks upon impact. The thought quickly vanishes, being replaced by the feeling of Illya’s lips pressing hard against his own in a way so filthy it makes Napoleon’s knees buckle. The blond proves that he is not the prude Napoleon thought him to be as his tongue does things to the man that he isn’t sure are legal, or even fair. “You are bold, Cowboy. Why should I not just kill you now? Why not erase your existence from all record?”

“Because you want this just as much as I do, Illya.” Napoleon sounds wrecked and the use of the Russian’s first name is as foreign to him as the sight of the man looking less than presentable; his expensive suit jacket is askew, all but hanging off of one shoulder, and his tie hanging looser than normal around his neck.

“You have no idea what I want.” Illya knows he doesn’t sound as cold and dangerous as he wants to. Napoleon is dead right and he knows there is no reason to deny it. “What do you _think_ I want?”

“I think you want me. I think you want me on my knees, watching your cock stretch my lips and turn them red from use. I think you want me on all fours as you shove yourself inside of me and split me open. I think you want to be as rough as you know you can’t with any woman, leaving bruises on every inch of me. I think you want to ruin me for anyone else I could ever take to my bed. I think you want everything that I want, Peril, and I am more than willing to give it to you.” The American’s hands are not still for a second throughout his entire mini-monologue, tracing over every inch of Illya that he can get to without the risk of a broken wrist.

By the time Napoleon shuts up, Illya is totally lost, his eyes dark as sin and his heart ramming against his ribs as every dream he ever tried to forget surfaces at once. His control slips for a split second and by the time he regains it, it is far too late. He is too lost on the taste of the other man’s lips, too far gone in his dark blue eyes, too intrigued by the things on offer to back away now. So instead, he kisses his partner. “You are not wrong, Cowboy.” He admits when they come up for air and his eyes are instantly drawn to the slight tint of color spreading on Solo’s lips and cheeks.

“Of course I’m not. Do you really think I would stick out my neck like that without being almost certain you wanted exactly what I claimed?” He chuckles, hands freely exploring now that he knows his safety is not in question.

“You are not that stupid.” Illya shakes his head, groaning at the feel of Napoleon’s lips on his neck before a moan leaves him as the man bites down just over where his pulse is thundering harshly.

“How do you want me first, Kuryakin?”

A large, calloused hand in his hair tells him exactly how his Russian giant wants him. He is on his knees, trapped between six-and-a-half feet of Russian and a wall, before pressure is even applied to direct him down to his current position. He takes a moment to appreciate the simplicity of Illya’s wardrobe as he slips the belt out of its home and then does the same with his pants button and the zipper directly beneath.

His curious touch seeks out that warmth that he is so anxious for, eyes going wide as he feels just how well-endowed the other is. He briefly wonders if the man standing above him is bigger than he is but then he lets the thought go so he can get back to the task, quite literally, at hand. His lips wrap around the bulge in Illya’s underwear, drawing out the most animalistic sound he has ever hear the man emit. Napoleon slides his lips down towards the base before slipping across the quickly dampening fabric towards the head to suckle at the pre-cum seeping through.

If the hand scratching at the back of his head is any indication, Napoleon is doing something right. The thought is encouraging enough to allow him the will to grab Illya’s underwear and force it down around the man’s thighs with his pants. Napoleon’s eyes are instantly drawn to the organ bobbing right in front of him, making his own dick twitch in sympathy at the sight of the angry purple head. He doesn’t waste any time in taking the huge member into his mouth and sucking it down as far as he can.

A thump draws his attention and he glances up to see Illya’s head thrown forward against the wall and his eyes closed shut against the sensations racing through his body. Napoleon smirks around his partner’s cock, pushing himself even closer to the Russian’s pelvis and swallowing around him. A fist bangs into the wall above him and he doesn’t spare it a moment of thought as he reaches up to grab Illya’s free hand and guide it to his hair. Illya lets his hand sink into the soft black strands, but Napoleon needs more, so he sinks back onto his ankles so he can talk. “I’m giving you permission to fuck my face, Peril. If I were you, I would take the invitation.” His voice is husky and his words are lewd enough to shock the poor man standing there, before he is sinking back down and bobbing his head a few times in quick succession.

It only takes about three seconds for Illya to find his strength and do just what Napoleon wants. His head bangs against the wall with the force of the Peril’s thrusts but Napoleon would have it no other way. He relaxes his jaw and grips tightly onto the other’s thighs as his mouth is thoroughly used. “Such a whore, Cowboy. On your knees with my cock in your throat. If only the people around you knew just what you are. Such a little slut.” Illya’s words go straight to Napoleon’s cock and he finds himself moaning and palming at his own dick as Illya’s cock is shoved even farther down his throat, causing him to gag but keep going.

Napoleon has his suit pants unbuttoned and is working his fist furiously over his own dick before he realizes it. As Illya gets closer his thrusts become sloppier and he shoves Napoleon’s head harder against the wall, but it just serves to make him work harder to help his partner come. Illya lasts for another minute, much to Napoleon’s surprise, and then his hand pulls almost too roughly at his hair as he comes down Napoleon’s throat. After coming down from his high he pulls Napoleon to his feet and kisses him stupid, tasting himself on the American’s tongue.

“I’m impressed, Peril. That is quite the stamina you’ve got there. Now how fast can you recover?” Napoleon asks with a wicked smile, his voice rough and abused.

Illya picks the man up and tosses him onto the hotel bed, not even caring that his disassembled gun is laying in pieces not six inches from their faces. “You’d be surprised, Cowboy.”

When a giant hand paws at his exposed cock Napoleon moans, head rolling back into the pillows and allowing Illya the perfect opportunity to mark up his neck with little red marks that will definitely bruise. His free hand makes quick work of Napoleon’s ridiculously expensive suit jacket, vest, and button up, leaving them hanging open as he kisses across the newly exposed skin. His tongue laps at Napoleon’s nipples experimentally and the reaction he gets makes him smirk. “So sensitive for me, Cowboy. Are you always like this?”

“No!” Napoleon gasps, arching into his lover’s touch. “Never!”

Illya tends to believe the man since he has heard Napoleon having sex before when he accidentally left his transmitter on and Napoleon had missed one of his bugs. He was sorry up until the moment he came in his pants like a teenager at the wanton sounds of Napoleon coming. “Good.” He growls, biting at the beaded nipple under his mouth and then trailing his tongue across the little black hairs between to the other one and giving it the same treatment. “You are mine, Solo. And I will make you know it.”

“Yours. All yours!” Napoleon gasps breathlessly, wanting nothing more than to be Illya’s.

Neither has any idea where this possessiveness is coming from, but they would both be lying if they said it didn’t do wonders for their libidos. Before long, Napoleon finds himself naked with Illya’s once again erect cock rubbing against his bare thigh. “Please, Illya.” He gasps and those two little words are enough to make the other wild with lust. He pulls Napoleon’s hips down before shoving his thighs up towards his chest and sinking to his knees at the foot of the bed.

The scream of pleasure that Napoleon lets out when Illya licks across his hole are the most erotic sounds he has ever heard and he quickly sets to work on making him emit even more. He licks at the tight muscle, feeling it twitch and relax under his tongue before he begins to lick his way inside. His hands go to Napoleon’s hips to hold him still while his tongue prods deeper inside of him to stretch him out and make him sloppy and wet. When it becomes easy to flick his tongue inside the tight pucker without much resistance he adds a finger and licks around the digit to loosen the American up even further.

He can’t help but allow filthy words to fall from his lips as he opens up his fellow agent on his fingers and tongue, having no sense of mind to be embarrassed by his claims and declarations. “Fuck, Solo. Do you know what you look like? How much of a good little slut you are being for me? I wish you could see this. You’re so tight around my fingers, your hole red and twitching. You’re hungry for a cock, aren’t you? You want it so much you can taste it.”

“ _Fuck_ , Illya. I ne- I _need_ you to fuck me.” Napoleon groans, hand reaching down to urge Illya’s face closer to him despite his words.

Illya is quick to comply, standing and shedding the remainder of his own clothes as Napoleon climbs higher on the bed. Illya follows shortly after with a predatory smile on his face, leaning down to kiss Napoleon until neither of them can breathe. “Roll over, Cowboy.” Illya orders and a low moan works its way out of Napoleon’s throat as he obeys the command.

With his ass on display for Illya’s gaze, Napoleon feels the first rush of insecurity he has felt since the very first time he had sex. Illya lets out a curse in Russian at the sight of his lover’s hole winking up at him teasingly. He sticks two of his long fingers back inside and Napoleon’s back bows at the feeling of those skilled digits exploring his most intimate place. “So perfect, Solo.”

He spits in his own hand and spreads the wetness on his dick, wishing they had something a little more suited for the task. Once he is sure both he and Napoleon are prepared, Illya draws himself up onto his knees and rests one hand on his hip, the other grasping his cock and guiding it inside of Napoleon’s willing body. A loud moan sounds through the hotel room and neither knows which of them made it. Once Illya is fully inside of his lover he waits a minute to allow Napoleon time to adjust. He may not always like the ‘ignorant capitalist’ but the last thing he wants to do it hurt the man.

Once the burn that accompanies hurried preparation passes, Napoleon forces himself back into Illya, glad that the other man gets the message and pulls almost all the way out before pushing his way back inside. Napoleon’s arms shake with every thrust, the pleasure too much as he collapses onto his shoulder with his ass still up in the air. The change in angle sends Illya even deeper inside of him and he cries out as his prostate is rammed into by Illya’s cock. “Right there, Peril. Again.”

The Russian doesn’t disappoint, plowing into Napoleon’s ass until he feels split open and raw around the dick inside of him. Without warning, Illya pulls out and grips and pulls at Napoleon until he gets the man onto his back. There is pieces of Illya’s gun digging into Napoleon’s back and probably leaving scratches and bruises but he ceases to care when Illya’s cock is once again forcing its way back inside of him. He knows he isn’t going to last long, but desperately wants to outlast Illya. It doesn’t take long for him to realize that that isn’t going to happen so he works on rolling his hips in counterpart to Illya’s thrust so he can try for two orgasms before Illya finishes again.

He tenses up when Illya lands a particularly brutal thrust against his prostate and then he comes all over his own stomach, cock pulsing white spurts all over his smooth skin without having been touched since Illya entered him. Illya doesn’t stop moving, milking Napoleon’s prostate until the man comes back to himself and begins moaning at the slightly painful feeling of overstimulation. Within minutes he is hard as diamond once more, body rolling sensually against Illya as he works them both into a frenzy.

“I want to see how well you ride, Cowboy.” Illya growls and Napoleon would roll his eyes if he wasn’t so turned on by the idea of pinning the Red Peril beneath him.

They quickly roll so Napoleon is straddling Illya’s hips and they moan in unison at the feeling the angle brings. “Fuck, Illya. I’m not going to last much longer.” Napoleon admits before he even begins to move, drawing himself up on his knees before falling back down on the cock beneath him.

The sight of Napoleon looking so wrecked does something to Illya and he finds himself drawing closer and closer to the edge of coming. He draws a hand down the marks he left on Napoleon’s neck and chest, hand resting on the man’s hip as he helps him work himself on his dick. “Neither will I, Solo. It’s alright. Come for me.”

Napoleon feels his back bow as the heat curling in his stomach rushes through him and he comes, wishing he could open his eyes and see the white liquid landing across the planes of Illya’s perfect torso. Just as he’s calming down he hears Illya lose it, his hips thrusting into Napoleon’s ass as far as he can before he comes inside the tight hole. “Blyat, malysh!”

The sound of Illya losing his faculties enough that he reverts to his home language is very gratifying to Napoleon, as well as the words that he translates easily to ‘fuck, baby!’ and leave a smirk on his sweaty face. “You really do have amazing stamina, Peril.”

“You are not bad yourself, Solo.” Illya admits as the pair stand and go to the bathroom to clean themselves off.

They decide to just take a shower and they quietly wash each other until they are sure they’re both clean, their hands almost worshiping each other’s bodies as if it will be the last time they are allowed to touch. When they step out of the shower Illya wraps one towel around his waist and walks out to reassemble his gun while Napoleon examines his bruised and marked body in the mirror. When he turns and looks over his shoulder he can very clearly see the outline of a partial gun barrel just under his left shoulder blade and he has to hold in a satisfactory smile at being so thoroughly owned by Illya’s strong body.

“Take picture, it will last longer.” Illya says from the doorway and Napoleon just shrugs, following his newfound lover back into the bedroom and accepting the glass of vodka that the Russian hands him. The pair wordlessly climb under the covers and stare at the ceiling until Napoleon risks breaking their bubble to state the extremely obvious.

“I should be getting back to my room.” He sighs, though he makes no move to leave the warmth of the sheets.

“It is only mid-afternoon. You have time.” Illya replies and Napoleon feels honored that the introvert wishes for him to stay just a bit longer.

“Yes, I guess I can stay for just a bit longer. For all anyone knows I could be playing you in a game of chess right now out of boredom.” Napoleon nods, yawning against the exhaustion that comes with two amazing rounds of sex with no period in between to recuperate.

“Sleep, Solo. I will wake you before dark.” Illya tells him and Napoleon nods, sinking farther into the mattress and trying not to look like he wants to cuddle as much as he actually does.

A second after the thought crosses his mind Illya’s strong arms wrap around his body and pull him back into his mostly bare body, nothing but their underwear separating them. “Sleep, silly Cowboy.”

Napoleon can’t even think to argue with an order like that so he relaxes into Illya’s chest and begins to nod off. Later they will have to worry about the consequences of what happened. They will have to rethink all that they ever believed about one another’s boundaries. They will have to decide what this thing between them is and what they are willing to let it become. But right now, they are fine just the way they are, with Napoleon curled into Illya’s chest and Illya’s head buried in his hair.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, comments are really, really appreciated. And kudos are too, so don't be afraid to click the little white button that says 'kudos' in red letters if you liked this. Anyway, now it is back to the world of Teen Wolf, Supernatural, and Sherlock for me! Toodles!


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